


Here's to Us

by TrisanaSkystorm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Castration, Drug Use, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Rehab
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrisanaSkystorm/pseuds/TrisanaSkystorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was a drug addict and a late presenting omega. During his first heat he's taken advantage of by Victor Trevor and becomes pregnant. Everything else? After that, it's easy. Thank god for detectives and doctors. Omegaverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victor Trevor, Go To Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multichapter story. Really very sorry about the darkness of this chapter. Not that I'm saying I'm a fluffy person because I'm really not, but seriously. Johnlock will come when John actually comes into the timeline. Castration in this chapter only. Also very sorry for the title, I was really drawing a blank. Titles, not so much my thing.

Sherlock

When he was a child he’d told his older brother who’d just presented himself as an Omega that he wouldn’t dare present as such a lowly thing. It was common knowledge that Omega’s were often held back because of their so called gender, and the plans that even then he’d been making for the future wouldn’t abide by that. He fully intended at the tender age of seven to live his life out undeclared, of course Mycroft the bitter fat bastard had laughed and called him foolish.

At least he had until Sherlock indeed remained unpresented at the age of 19. A beta by lack of other option. Whilst being an Omega wasn’t brilliant by any means it was certainly better than being a boring beta. At that point his mother had lost interest in him. God knew where father was. At the bottom of some lake one could only hope.

Victoriously he’d fled into London, staying at university for only a few months before landing in a fantastic world of drugs and sex. At first he’d taken only the gentle drugs, little amounts of prescription pills and pot, but before he knew it his habits had grown further and further out of control. His mind had quietened with the use of downers, and with uppers, speed and the like he’d become so much more productive and the sex was fantastic. He was on fire.

Until he wasn’t.

Sherlock stared dispassionately at his former dealer and so called ‘friend’ Victor Trevor. A stocky looking man once, the drugs had taken a toll on his body too. Sunken in on itself his face was pallid and shrivelled. Fresh hair dusting his lapel. Razor burn on his upper lip. Spots of missed hair. He’d recently shaved off that abominable looking moustache. Good, he’d looked rather a pillock with it.

The lacklustre alpha stared at him with dull eyes. His fingers trembled and he was starting to sweat.  
Caught him fresh from a high and he was starting to hit the withdrawal. Perfect. Mummy always said he could be rather vindictive. It was one of the reasons she’d thought he’d end up presenting as an alpha. But look how that went.

“Victor,” Sherlock greeted in a casual voice, not good to tip your hand before the end of the game, “Good to see you. You’ve certainly seen better days.”

“Sherlock,” Victor replied his words fumbled and slurred with drugged confusion, “Haven’t seen you since-“

“Yes, since you raped me you mean?” Sherlock inquired, tone never changing to give anything away.

“Rape? I never,” Victor tried, stumbling over his own thick tongue, “I never raped you.”

“Of course you did,” Sherlock said leaning casually on the bed behind him, “Right here. On this bed. Or were you so blazed out of your mind that you forgot your cock entering me repeatedly.”

“That wasn’t rape,” Victor indignantly replied brows furrowing in thought, “That was- You wanted it.”

“No,” Sherlock stated his tone hardening, the game nearly at its climax, “You did. Enough to tie me down and hold me there until the height of my heat.”

The moment of his body’s betrayal. Of course it would have been the attempt to wean himself from the drugs that caused it. Only a few months ago he’d decided that enough was enough. He’d spent far too many years taking drugs and drifting from occupation to occupation.

Sometimes he was on Mycroft’s radar, helping the police as he saw it or doing odd interesting jobs. He’d been a violin tutor once. But the child had proved to have zero talent and no sense of rhythm. Other times he’d disappeared so far into the woodwork that evading Mycroft became a job in and of itself.

When he’d given up drugs the last time he’d bowed to pressure and allowed Mycroft to find him an apartment, which he’d abandoned upon finding one himself, and started to eat. All his life he’d been thin, but when Mycroft had started gaining weight he’d been driven to keep himself that way. Food became a vice that need only be indulged when given no other choice. It was abhorrent and dull, and his transport only required it a small amount of the time it requested it. Stupid really to ask for something that wasn’t needed.

Against his better judgement he’d begun to eat only a few months ago, and gaining weight had become a reality. In getting his body healthy again it had kick started the system within that had been on hibernate for so long. With every softening angle came the further release of chemicals. Chemicals he neither wanted nor needed. 

His whole endocrine system flooding and pulsating with the release of progesterone and omegastril the omega equivalent of the beta chemical oestrogen. The chemical makeup forcing heats and allowing for bonding. Two things he abhorred the idea of. Two things that his new status as an omega would make an almost certainty at some point.

Cursing and railing against the nature he’d held off for so long he approached Victor. The only person that he had available to him. To ask Mycroft would be an unforgivable sin. He was certain that as he’d once laughed at his brother, his brother would laugh at him. So the only solution was to stave it off in the manner that he’d done previously.

Drugs.

Gone was the clean constitution that he’d been working on building. Running from his apartment he sought out the hovel that Victor lived in. Throwing himself upon the sacrificial alter, figuratively speaking of course he’d never get down on his knees for anyone so far below him given another choice, he’d sought drugs. And everything had been going fine. 

\---

Victor had been rummaging through his shit until he suddenly stopped and turned back to Sherlock, “Something’s different about you.” He moved closer, Sherlock standing still and refusing to back down. It simply wasn’t in his nature.

“You,” Victor sniffed, “You’re not a beta. You’re an omega.”

“Yes, very astute,” Sherlock snarked angrily, the influx of hormones putting him more on edge than usual, “my drugs?”

“And you’re in heat,” Victor stated grinning as he gripped Sherlock by the collar, sniffing at his neck invasively for the hormones gathering there, “You’ve come here just for me. Oh Sherlock. How cute.”

Letting go of the shirt he handed over the drugs and watched Sherlock shoot up right then and there. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Sherlock was desperate for the endocrine disruption the drugs would provide. Normally he wouldn’t be so careless. But normally he wasn’t an Omega going into heat trying to take drugs to prevent that.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock snapped glaring angrily at Victor as he caught him up again immediately after he’d shot up, pulling him in for a kiss and immediately getting shoved away.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I just…” Victor didn’t have an excuse other than Sherlock’s heat. He wanted to kiss Sherlock and he did and he wanted to do it again several more times.

“Just what?” Sherlock demanded. Victor couldn’t speak as he took a step closer the scent of the omega in heat driving him wild.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked nervously already beginning to feel the drugs set in properly, but too late to stop his first heat from happening.

“Just let me kiss you again,” Victor breathed, leaning forward and pressing their lips together. Sherlock tried to push against the alpha but was unsuccessful in dislodging him.

Victor pushed forward, causing the two of them to topple onto the bed in a heated pile of limbs. Sherlock instantly spread his legs instinctively and without thought, lubricant starting to flow now that he was riding toward the start of his first heat. Victor slipped between Sherlock’s legs with ease, grinding their hips together and drawing from him a breathy gasp. 

He felt like he was going to explode as he ripped at Sherlock’s buttons, opening his pants and shoving them off him. With his pants gone he forced the limbs into the grip of ropes that were there from his last sexual liaison. The ropes, the kind you might find at any hardware store, bit into Sherlock’s limbs as he struggled. The mix of heat and high was heady; he was burning hot and relentlessly turned on, but unwilling to mate with the person who was trying to seduce him.

“No,” Sherlock panted as he clothes were pushed aside as much as the ropes would allow, “I don’t want- No.”

“It’s okay Sherlock. Everything is going to be fine. Am I your first? You smell like it,” Victor huffed scenting the body struggling under him, pupils blown wide and cock more than a little hard, “Don’t worry, I’m going to take good care of you. Fill you up so good. You’ll like it I promise. Pretty little omega just needs a big alpha cock. Don’t ya.”

His body was one searing ball of heat and hormones. He cried out and whimpered as his hole started to lubricate, ready to receive his partner. His stupid, ugly, fat, idiotic, trash talking partner. No he didn’t want this. He wanted it so bad. An anguished cry broke from his lips. He was floating, soaring high in his own body. Hyper aware and blissed out. An insane contradiction of paradoxes. 

“No, stop it,” Sherlock slurred barely able to complete the sentence, his nature and raging hormones working against him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t. He didn’t.

“Shhh, everything’s going to be fine,” Victor said placatingly as he licked and bit his way down the softened body. His trousers were growing far too tight, but the torture of waiting to do something about it was exquisite. Pretty little omega smelled so good.

"You like that?" Victor breathed hotly into Sherlock’s ear, the curling strands of his hair tickling Victor’s face as he spoke. He could feel Sherlock’s body shudder, could clearly see the goose bumps that broke out across the man's skin. Although he didn’t want the attention, his sex starved body couldn’t help but appreciate it, though his mind certainly didn’t.

It was massively unfair, the blazing high he was riding adding to the feeling so even as he tugged and squirmed under Victor’s weight and the grip of the rope he couldn’t feel the damage he was doing. His wrists were vaguely warm, and although Victor kept telling him to stop, that he could see Sherlock wanted it, he didn’t.

"Yes, god yes," Sherlock moaned as Victor's mouth closed over his nipple. He closed his eyes, gritting his jaw tightly shut as Victor rolled his nipple between his teeth, the threat of a harsh bite turning his already insanely aroused body on more. The sensation washed through him forcing sounds from between his lips and more liquid to secrete from his body.

Slipping his hand down Sherlock’s body Victor caressed the sharpness of his hipbone, the hard angle of his erection and finally slipped between slick globes to enter his body. Victor had never been so excited in his life to touch someone like this and his cock ached in his pants. His first omega. Against his will Sherlock arched and keened in reaction, the feeling of something filling his suddenly far too empty hole overwhelming him.

Every nerve ending was on fire with sensation, beating down his consciousness and leaving everything in crystal clarity except the dullness around the edges of his skin. Victor smirked down at him, inserting another finger into the space and thrusting them back and forth experimentally. Discovering how wet and open he was he withdrew and lined himself up.

“Are you ready Sherlock? You look so pretty writhing under me. Want to know what you look like speared on my cock,” Victor babbled, the typical alpha bullshit that poured from their mouths when they were turned on and overconfident. For some reason they all seemed to be operating under the universal opinion that their partners, beta and omega alike, enjoyed this kind of demeaning rubbish.

“No,” Sherlock whined weakly fighting the alpha off whilst he lower body moved towards him contradictorily. The complete lack of attraction he was feeling, or rather the level of repulsion he was feeling, was helping to keep him from submitting entirely.

Taking hold of Sherlock’s ass, Victor pushed into him, his eyes sliding shut at the slick warmth that surrounded him. Sherlock buck and writhe, his head flinging back into the pillows, spine arching with the feeling. So full. So full and alive. Like seeing in technicolour for the first time. A feeling he was both loving and hating as he rocked back into the body fucking him from above. With little more forethought Victor set about fucking him at a brutal pace for someone who had formerly been a virgin, omega or not.

Sherlock couldn't believe the way it felt. It was good and bad all swirled into one until he couldn't tell which was which and all he could do was pant and feel. Tears gathered in his blue eyes from the combined pleasure and pain, trembling pleasurably in his vision until he closed his eyes allowing them to spill down his cheeks in heated tracks. The only tears he would shed.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock cried breathily, as Victor slammed into his prostate harshly and repeatedly. He felt turned on and embarrassed but oh so aroused from the drugs and the heat. Though Sherlock begged for more, Victor didn’t move any faster, but continued to slam into that spot deep inside him. By the time Victor reached between them and began stroking Sherlock’s erect penis, Sherlock was writhing in pleasure he had never felt before.

He shivered when Victor’s lips pressed against the side of his neck, his mouth opening to suck on the skin. “No,” Sherlock cried wriggling and writhing under the man who was trying to place his claim, “No bonding.”

At least he was strong enough to ascertain that. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned at the feeling of the huge penis sliding sharply inside him and back out again in swift movements. After a steady rhythm of thrusts, Victor lifted his hips so he bottomed out inside Sherlock and then pulled nearly all the way out only to return, with a slight twist of his hips that made him gasp. 

Victor ground up into the omega and circled his hips trying to get as much pleasure as he could, then alternated with thrusting once more. The alpha thrust inside again and again, the knot at the base of his cock starting to swell. At the last moment he pushed the knot inside Sherlock, sealing them together and with a stroke of Sherlock’s erection sending them both into orgasm.

Holding Sherlock close, Victor fell asleep still knotted together with him, eventually softening and slipping free whilst Sherlock rode the end of his high. When he was able to he struggled out of the ropes without waking Victor and slunk off into London to hide out the rest of the heat where no one would find him. Being an omega sucked.

\---

Prowling forward Sherlock bared his teeth in a grimacing grin, “Well, do you think it was worth it? Considering it was the last fuck you’re bound to have, I certainly hope so.”

“How do you know I haven’t-“

“Shut up!” Sherlock snapped angrily tipping his hand, “I know you haven’t because you’re a pathetic strung out fuck that raped me and got me pregnant. So I’ll ask you again Victor, Was. It. Worth. It?”

They both knew there was no right answer there. It was a part of the trap. If he said yes then he was asking for a good hiding, and if he said no then he was saying that Sherlock was a bad lay and again came under the firing line.

“I- I don’t,” Victor muttered frantically, his dazed eyes darting around in terror, “I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t,” Sherlock replied leaning into Victor’s personal space grimly, “because that alpha cock of yours may as well be for show. Other than me you’ve had hardly any occasion to use it have you?”

Shaking his head in fear trying to figure out if that was the right answer Victor whimpered. Sherlock could be quite terrifying when he wanted to. And he wasn’t even high. He was stone cold sober. And pregnant. With his child. Victor could smell it, the scent conditioning him to submit. Alphas naturally didn’t like to hurt pregnant omegas, they wanted to coddle and help them. Chemical and biological conditioning.

“Then you won’t mind if I take it, will you?” Sherlock questioned maliciously, “After all, you’ve already told me it belongs to me haven’t you.”

The only sound was Victor whimpering in fear for a few moments before Sherlock got angry and pointed the gun he’d had pointed at Victor’s head the entire time at the bed dismissively, “Get on the bed Victor.”

With terror Victor did what Sherlock asked against his will and judgement, the same way that Sherlock had been forced to sleep with him. Turnabout at its finest. Sherlock opened the bag that he’d brought with him and tossed the bastard a set of restraints, “Now lock yourself in the restraints.”

With terror stiffened fumbling hands Victor hooked handcuffs to all four corners of the bed and locked himself into them one by one until Sherlock was forced to cross the room to finish them off. 

“Very good, see you can be a good boy. But I’m afraid that’s a little too little too late,” Sherlock admonished running his hands down Victor’s chest opening the fabric and pushing down his pants to reveal his flaccid penis then reaching into his bag for his scalpel. 

It hadn’t been too hard to palm one from the lab at St. Barts. He had an in with one of the young ladies there who had a bit of a crush on him. Pretending to flirt with her had captured her attention for a while as he palmed the still packet covered scalpel. Luckily she hadn’t noticed the pregnancy yet. That would have complicated things a bit.

Finding Victor’s stash of drugs he made the man up a hit dosed him with it and removed the scalpel from its package. He couldn’t have Victor squirming too much, so he’d dosed him with a fairly high dosage. Certainly if the scalpel didn’t end him then the drugs might.

Taking the scalpel over to Victor Sherlock looked down at the man impassively. He’d intellectually like to apologise. That seemed like a thing that someone might do in a situation like this, but the truth was that he really couldn’t care less. Some might say that made him a psychopath, but he’d simply say that they were wrong. He was a higher functioning sociopath with sadistic tendencies when provoked.

“Hold still Victor,” Sherlock intoned, “You might feel a little pinch.”

That said he stripped his tie from body, stuffed it into Victor’s mouth like a gag and set to work. Pushing the man’s testes up and out of the way he applied the scalpel, ignoring the scream of pain Victor let free even with the amount of drugs raging in his system and cut off the lower third of the scrotum with a cut parallel to the ground revealing the testes themselves.

Using his other hand he placed the scalpel to the side for a moment and took hold of the testis, pulling it down and furrowing his brow at the slick warmness of them. Interesting. He’d have to categorise the experience later. It would bear further thought.

Taking the scalpel in hand he sliced through the spermatic cord and released. With a self-satisfied smirk he returned the scalpel to a special box he’d brought with him. It would be easy to get rid of the scalpel among the debris of other surgical centres. He’d take care of it later. In the meantime he prepared another hit for the unconscious Victor and shot him up with it.

It was a game of Russian roulette to see what got him first. Blood loss, drug overdose, or bacterial infection. On the upside, no matter what the route was, he wasn’t going to be knocking anybody else up on his way to hell. Not that he believed in such a place, but it was the perfect figure of speech.

“Goodbye Victor,” Sherlock intoned, leaving the building. As he went he topped up the layer of gasoline he’d made earlier, and with a flick of the lighter lit his cigarette and dropped the lighter into the gas and walking away as it lit the building up. Or maybe the fire would get Victor first.

Funny, but he had no remorse.

After dealing with the items he had on hand he made his way to Mycroft’s apartment resentfully. It was really the only choice he had left to himself. The final sin.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted coolly when Sherlock walked in, not even bothering to knock.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth as Mycroft looked him up and down noticing the details of the day on him. He was lucky Scotland Yard wasn’t even a tenth of how smart they were. Especially him, far more than stupid Mycroft.

“I see you’ve been in trouble today,” Mycroft replied settling into his chair more firmly and gesturing at the seat opposite to him whilst Sherlock resolutely ignored him.

“As have you,” Sherlock replied noting from his posture and demeanour that Mycroft had been successful in his day’s endeavours.

“Ah yes, but not nearly as much as you,” Mycroft replied, “Congratulations on presenting finally, shame really that the father won’t be here to enjoy the new life you’ve created. Still at least you’re currently clean I suppose.”

Sherlock remained resentfully silent as he slung himself into the couch obstinately. He slouched and put his feet up on it, shoes and all, delighting at the wince that only he’d be able to observe. He did so love it when his actions caused Mycroft trouble. Didn’t want to go too far though. He did still need Mycroft’s help. After all it was he that controlled Sherlock’s trust fund as he had since Sherlock had left university. Can’t trust those with drug addictions to hold onto that sum of money after all. More than enough there to overdose a few times over.

“Still, I think it best we don’t tell Mummy. You know how you tend to upset her,” Mycroft said after the temporary silence.

“I upset her, it wasn’t me that upset her Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed in a huff. Technically that was true. Father had been the one cheating, it was just he that had pointed it out. Still the point remained.

“Yes, well,” Mycroft conceded, “If you’ll consent to rehab, then I’ll help you. But only then. You’ve given me enough grief today with your petty actions.”

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock muttered in annoyance, “Dull!”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied in a slightly amused tone, “that may be, however for the good of this child you will go to rehab, or I shall call Mummy and we shall arrange an abortion. If you’re going to kill it with drugs then it’s best to do so now whilst we can do it in a controlled environment.”

As much as he wasn’t prepared to be a parent Sherlock placed a hand on his stomach and frowned. He didn’t want to be a child murderer. Everything in his omega instincts screamed against it. Besides which whilst he abhorred the company of adults with their limited minds and simplistic intellects he did rather enjoy children. But secretly. That wasn’t a thing he wanted shared around. He didn’t need anybody.

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded before going on to warn his brother, “But you’ll have to find a way to keep me entertained. I can’t be bored Mycroft.”

“Very well,” Mycroft answered getting to his feet, “There’s a car waiting for you outside to take you to rehab. Everything you need is in the bag inside. I promise I shall work on finding you something to keep you busy.”

“Fine,” Sherlock grumped before leaving the house and getting into the car. Of course Mycroft knew he was coming and was prepared for this eventuality. He’d probably known Sherlock’s every action from the moment he stepped into Victor’s bedroom.

Staring guardedly out of the window he said nothing as the driver took him to rehab.


	2. Rehab Woes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the size, but apparently the trade-off of me being in the mood to write is smaller chapters but more frequent updates. It's a thing. Even managed to fit it in around going to see Stark Trek Into Darkness for the second time. Go me, and here's hoping I can keep this up.

Sherlock

Sherlock stared at the counsellor in front of him with disdain. A bunch of head shrinking mumbo jumbo. He was lucky he supposed that Mycroft had set him up with a private facility that wealthy people frequented rather than the average riff-raff that might generally pour through such a building.

Rehab. It was ridiculous. There was no need for him to be here. He wasn’t addicted. He’d given up easily enough, sweating it out and cursing the world when he’d first gone into heat and again after sleeping with Victor rather than possibly having to go through the same process again. It took a few weeks to execute his plan against Victor Trevor, but by that time he was well and truly clean, the fire of vengeance fuelling him. 

Will power. That was all it took. The staff here looked at him rather pityingly whenever he said as much. He couldn’t understand them. He was right and they knew it. They just wouldn’t admit it. He’d been there two weeks already. In that time they’d already discovered a few things about each other, and wasn’t that what all the head doctor crap was about.

At first they’d tried him in group therapy, but the ability to deduce what the speakers were about to say before they say and then some unsettled everyone a bit. Which suited him perfectly. Besides, there was no need for him to listen to their sob story when he could see it in the fold of their jumper.

Injected drugs, cocaine or heroin based off deterioration of physical form. He’d seen a photo on her dresser of her with her daughters, no pictures with a husband. Clearly her children had sent her there. Attempt three based off familiarity with the staff and comfort with the facility. Stories like that from all eight other occupants. Why did he need to sit there and listen to it.

In the meantime they’d forced him into individual sessions instead. The head shrink Dr Harris had taken the job herself of talking to him. Not that she was getting much. The soft flannel covered couch she pointed him to at the beginning of every session might as well have been his own for the way he treated it. Carelessly he flopped down for his sixth session, sprawling on the couch, his long limbs tucking and curling about him.

“So, Sherlock, you’ve been here two weeks,” Doctor Harris stated looking at her chart of notes, “how are you settling in?”

“Dull,” Sherlock huffed, steepling his finger under his chin.

‘Steepled fingers suggesting thoughtful confidence’ noted the doctor, scribbling away on her pad whilst Sherlock pretended not to watch her before turning to Sherlock’s statement, “Pardon?”

“Dull!” Sherlock exclaimed agitatedly shuffling back up from his laid down position to pace the floor.

“How?” Doctor Harris questioned scribbling more notes on her pad in a way that Sherlock found inexplicably irritating.

“Bored, I’m bored! Nothing happens here,” Sherlock exclaimed, “And Mycroft hasn’t brought me anything to do!”

“Ah yes, your brother,” Doctor Harris replied thoughtfully, “He sent you some books, plus a pamphlet for university didn’t he? Had you thought about going back? You are rather smart. I’m sure they must have something that would interest you.”

“I stayed for a few months before leaving to do drugs,” Sherlock deadpanned shaking his head. 

Were these people really so incompetent that they wanted to send him back into a situation that started all this. Besides, he was going to be a parent soon, a single parent. He didn’t want to be in that situation. There was no way he could risk going back with a child. Besides the classes they offered were taught by dusty old men in dusty old rooms. Boring.

“But how were those months beforehand?” Doctor Harris questioned, “Were you happy there? Could you enjoy doing it by correspondence this time? Being an extramural student?”

“Boring,” Sherlock responded throwing himself petulantly in the couch again.

“Alright,” the doctor acknowledged, “You don’t want to study. Then what do you want to do with your life? Where are you going? What are your goals? Who do you want to be? That’s your homework for the next session. I look forward to hearing about it.”

Scowling Sherlock got to his feet and made his way out of the room, heading for his own instead. The craving for a cigarette was heavy within his system, his previous coping mechanism now denied. The pull and draw of smoke wisping down his lungs, curling and caressing him before blowing back out again. The rush of nicotine through his system, the lesser class drug. His fingers twitched with the phantom feel of that cigarette as he collapsed on his bed.

Closing his eyes, he wasn’t tired damn it, he tried to picture where he wanted to go. What he wanted to be. A hand on his stomach, he tried to think about what he wanted his child to know him as. Right now he was an intelligent, murderer drug addict. What did he want his future to be?

His eyes opened and his hand reached for the cell-phone he’d managed to hide from the staff in the spa. He knew what he wanted, and Mycroft was going to help him.

\---

Mycroft exited the car with the grace of one used to being chauffeured. Dusting off his suit to make sure there were no wrinkles he took in the building. New Scotland Yard. His brother would want him to enter this world. Not that he was nervous or anything considering the world in which he worked, but there was a good chance that he was going to be wandering from department to department to get someone who had enough time to talk to him.

True to his thoughts, they allowed him past the front desk after checking his identification, but finding the right person after that was difficult. Whilst many superiors were willing to give him their time after realising whom he represented they simply didn’t have the time to give. Moving from department to department trying to find the right ear to listen to.

Until finally he found it. The person who would listen to him, the person who would hear him out and give him the time he needed and had enough influence. Gregory Lestrade. Pushing the door to his office open he found a silver haired officer staring at him. Closing the door after entering Mycroft introduced himself.

“Good afternoon Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said, taking in the look of the man. It was clear from the level of comfort he displayed in being in the room he was new to the position. Perfect, exactly the kind of man easily influenced. Throw a little power into the chat and he should easily get his way, “My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes,” Lestrade greeted leaning forward to place his elbows on the desk, “How can I help you?”

“I need copies of some of your cold cases,” Mycroft stated making himself comfortable in the seat across the table from the officer.

“And why would I get those for you?” Lestrade asked leaning back into his chair curiously. It was an unusual request to be sure. But how was he to know whether or not Mycroft was allowed to view those files. And if he was allowed to see the files then why was he here in person, why not just have them requisitioned.

“I understand that for proprieties sake you’re obliged to ask these questions, however I believe you’ll find all the answers you need if you look my clearance up in your system,” Mycroft informed the detective handing over his business card; a white card with the name Mycroft Holmes written on it. After all, his job didn’t technically exist, and his name was rather difficult to spell.

With a frown on his lips Lestrade entered the database for a clearance check and typed the name he’d been given. When it came up with full clearance but refused to give any further information he turned to regard Mycroft with suspicion, “Who are you?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft repeated, “Any further than that is rather classified I’m afraid.”

“Classified?” Lestrade questioned wondering if he should even get into it. Clearly all this was over his head, but you didn’t get to become an officer of the law without a little bit of curiosity. It was all very James Bond. Attractive man in a suit comes looking for information with classified background and full clearance.

“If you told me would you have to kill me?” Lestrade questioned jokingly laughing at his moment of wit until it died off when Mycroft’s only reaction was to raise an eyebrow.

Picking up the phone Lestrade called his superiors whilst Mycroft watched the goings on dispassionately. When everything was cleared with those above him and he’d ascertained that he was to ‘give Mr Holmes anything he wants’ he hung up and turned to the man in front of him.

“Right,” Lestrade said clearing his throat, “Cold cases then. What were you after specifically?”

“A good mix if possible, of at least ten cases,” Mycroft answered, “Murder and missing persons cases from varied time frames and locations.”

“What do you need all this for?” Lestrade questioned as he put in the order on the system, someone would deliver the files he needed soon. 

With that many files for someone of Mycroft’s clearance there was no reason to take him down to the actual facility the lucky bastard. The storage room could be like a bloody maze at times if you knew what you were looking for. At least he currently just needed a random selection.

“All I can tell you currently is that they’re going to be investigated further,” Mycroft stated apologetically, “So, how are you enjoying your new promotion.”

“Well it’s a bit…hang on. How did you know that I’ve been promoted recently?” Lestrade asked looking at Mycroft with interest.

“You aren’t entirely at ease in this office yet. You have boxes of files stacked in the corner as if you’ve had them at your desk and haven’t yet had the chance to unpack them. Plus the name card on the door is new, and as you haven’t been around long enough for it to need renewing it must be concluded that you are new to the position,” Mycroft replied coolly.

Lestrade stared at Mycroft with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, “Fantastic. I can see why you’ve got the high clearance with observations like that.”

Mycroft flushed a bit under the praise of someone that he found so attractive. It was unusual that someone other than those he worked for appreciated the work that he did. The door opened and a few clerks carrying the boxes of information he needed made their way in.

“Thank you for your cooperation Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said getting to his feet and looking at the boxes. He was going to need help getting these to the car.

As if sensing the problem Lestrade spoke up, “Would you like some help with those?”

“Ah, yes that would be much appreciated Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied as he bent to pick up two boxes himself, stacking one on top of the other.

Grabbing two boxes and directing one of the clerks who’d brought them in the handle the others they made their way to where Mycroft’s car was waiting and deposited them in the boot. The clerk immediately scurried off however Lestrade stayed for a few moments.

“If you need anything else,” Lestrade offered.

“I’ll let you know, thank you,” Mycroft countered telling himself not to get interested. Ring of his finger saying he’s been married to a beta for the last few years. Unhappily though, the tan line on his finger is inconsistent with someone who consistently wears their ring. She’s the one cheating on him, picture on his desk out dated because they haven’t been that happy. 

Getting into the vehicle he instructed the driver to take him to Silent Orchid Rehabilitation Centre and settled in for the ride. It was time for him to check on his brother. After all, left to his own devices for too long he tended to get into trouble.

\---

Sherlock huffed with annoyance. His acerbic tongue had caused a few issues with the other residents of the facility. They didn’t like the way he could air their dirty laundry on a whim, and he didn’t like them. Everything was so dull. At least until the fist fight he was currently in.

“Stupid little omega,” Audrey snapped, her red hair flying around her face as she struck out wildly. 

Being a beta she had a natural resentment against omegas. From the beta point of view they got the best of everything and betas were left behind to gather their scraps. It had been a sore point for her and absolutely the right button to push when he’d announced that the reason she’d turned to drugs was that her husband had left her for a younger more fertile omega. After all she wasn’t able to bare children, three miscarriages had proved as much. And there he was, newly pregnant omega baring her failure to the world.

Missing angered the beta and although there were several people trying to hold her back and calm her down she couldn’t. She wanted to scratch the smarmy little smirk off his stupid pregnant face. And she couldn’t. The longer she was held back the harder and more agitatedly she fought.

“Let. Me. Go,” Audrey screamed lashing out at the people holding her, “Kill him, I’ll kill him.”

“Yes, a sentiment that I’m rather familiar with I can assure you. However as that’s rather unwise with so many witnesses present , and also unlikely to happen I must insist you cease and desist immediately,” Mycroft drawled coolly.

Grabbing his brother by the arm he dragged him from the common room and forced him into his bedroom thankfully marked by his name on the door. Depositing the sullen man on his bed with ease he sat in the chair opposite.

“Really Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished, “I leave you alone for a few hours and you get into trouble. You knew I was bringing you the cases you asked for. Is your impulse control really so poor at the moment?”

“And where are they?” Sherlock demanded.

“Waiting in the car. I suddenly had the oddest feeling that I was going to need to apologise for your behaviour. Again,” Mycroft sighed wishing he had a drink in hand. No drinks here. No caffeine, no cigarettes, no alcohol. Nothing that could be constituted a harmful addiction. Truth be told he wasn’t sure how long he would last in this sort of an atmosphere. Considering his job.

“Well?” Sherlock huffed, “You are not otherwise occupied. I want my cases. Or do I need to go find something else to keep my interest. Really Mycroft, you couldn’t have picked a more boring location to send me.”

“Yes I’m sure,” Mycroft iterated, “Can you be trusted to behave whilst I procure the information this time?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock dismissed waving his hand and flopping down dramatically onto his bed, “Now hurry up.”

Shaking his head with exasperation Mycroft went to speak to the staff. After all, clearly he couldn’t leave his brother up to his own devices. Paying them off to provide him with information was clearly the best route to take. If he proved to be too much trouble then necessity might dictate relocation to the manor with Mummy and a round the clock personal staff. Not strictly ideal but he would do it if necessary.

It was simple really to make sure that they would work with him. Sherlock had been nothing but trouble since he’d arrived. Sure he hadn’t relapsed, and his actual rehabilitation was going well with his own willpower focused on not relapsing. However he’d caused all manner of discomfit, infighting and as he’d done only a few minutes previous caused actual physical retaliation.

It didn’t say much of the character of the staff though that they were swayed so easily with monetary bribes. He would also have to keep an eye on them so that Sherlock or some other person didn’t resort to such measures. With his brother pregnant it was his highest priority that he got the best care that he could get.

Although it was a dance with danger making Sherlock wait so long for what he wanted Mycroft kept working. Long term results rather than short terms woes. It was just better that way for all of them really.

When all the staff had agreed to work with him, not hard really considering Sherlock’s behaviour, he made his way to the car roped his driver into helping him and carried the files back to his sulking brother.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock growled as Mycroft placed his files on the floor next to his desk.

Getting to his feet he dismissed his brother’s presence and began looking at the files in front of him. His eyes gleamed and he began throwing the pieces around in what to anyone else might describe as a careless manner, but to him was organized chaos.

“Of course,” Sherlock muttered staring at the photos of the crime scene thoughtfully. Turning to look at his brother again, face crumpled in thought he spoke again, “I’ll need a computer. I’m sure you can arrange with one of your lackeys to deliver it.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied drily. It would be the work of a moment to get that organised, and honestly better than the alternative where Sherlock got into trouble that he had to clean up first and then demanded it again.

Looking back at the folders again Sherlock became ensconced in his own world. Oh yes, this was something he could see himself doing for some time to come. After all, it was unlikely that the police were going to get any smarter than they were already. They needed him; they just didn’t know it yet. But he would show them, oh yes he would.

His child would be proud to say, Sherlock Holmes is my father.


	3. Yes and No...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not much happening, but time's moving now. I kind of felt this needed to be done.

Sherlock

He was bored! So mind numbingly bored. And Audrey was gone already, so she wasn’t there to antagonise. Given up on rehab and gone home. The cases that he’d been given by his brother were all either solved and awaiting pick up, or unable to be solved because of the shocking job done by the people who initially worked the case.

Did the police not have any idea what appropriate behaviour was on a crime scene. They contaminated and ruined so many things that would have made the case with their bumbling behaviour. And when things weren’t ruined and he’d been able to solve them he’d only been able to wonder how they’d missed something so obvious.

Glaring. Stupid. Why were they all so stupid. His hands went to his head and he groaned in agitation. There were a million thoughts all buzzing around in there. He couldn’t turn them off, and being pregnant ruled out going back to drugs; his usual coping technique. God he just wanted the thoughts to stop, and the boredom jitters to be assuaged.

He’d been in the rehabilitation facility for a little over two months, with only a few weeks left. And it was hell. At least today he had something to look forward to. If he was honest with himself he’d say that it was partly that which was making him so jittery. Today he was going to have his mid-pregnancy ultrasound. At 18 weeks in he was going to get to find out his child’s gender.

At first he hadn’t really been all that interested in what was going on inside him. However boredom had shown him better. The books that Mycroft had been ‘good enough’ (as if the great pillock, gratitude was for those who deserved it and those with ulterior motives didn’t deserve it), to leave him provided invaluable information. Fascinating really.

At 18 weeks the baby was supposed to weigh 7 ounces, and should be 5 1/2 inches from head to bottom. His hands caressed over the obvious bump on his normally slender frame. A tiny little life building inside of him. Curious really. That something like that could happen inside of him. Some might say that he didn’t have a heart. But he must in order to allow something like this.

Even at the height of his discovery of his pregnancy, he’d never entertained the idea of abortion. And if that wasn’t rather telling…Not that he’d ever admit it if anyone asked him. Especially Mycroft. He’d called the previous night, as if he didn’t know better by now, why did he need to talk to his brother when Mycroft had already paid off the staff to tell him everything that needed to be said. 

Pompous git probably thought he was being really bloody clever with that move. As if he wouldn’t notice the way they suddenly paid that much more attention to him. If they were going to breach the code of ethics the least they could do was be sneaky about it.

Instead they scribbled note after note, staring at him as though he was a spot of blood behind a glass slide. In a way he was their experiment, and it bothered him knowing there was no other alternative but to bear it for the sake of his child. Not even born yet and it was already dictating his life.

“Mr Holmes,” the nurse greeted, coming out to meet him and take him inside the doctors room in the way only well paid professionals did, “How are you this morning? Looking forward to finding out what you’re having? Or did you want it to be a surprise?”

There were so many myths, wives tales and urban legends out there about determining the gender of your child before it was born. He’d read a fair few of them, and although logic would dictate that based off the laws of probability that at least some of them would hold true he was just bored enough to give them a go. One stated that gender could be determined by Morning Sickness - A boy has little to no morning sickness in the beginning of pregnancy, a girl has morning sickness that last throughout the pregnancy. Another stated that if you were craving salty foods it was a boy, if you were craving sweet foods it was a girl. The list went on and on.

“I believe it’s going to be a boy,” Sherlock stated, allowing the grinning woman to guide him into the office and sit him down on the seat.

Laying on his back he uncovered his stomach, looking at it as though he’d never seen it before. Funny, but before this moment he wasn’t sure he really had. Laying on his back, his stomach bared to the room and about to find out the gender of his baby, this pregnancy felt more real than at any point so far.

The ultrasound technician came into the room and grinned at him, “Hello there Mr Holmes, How are you today? No more morning sickness I trust? I know you weren’t terribly fond of that stage. You’re looking much better than the last time we saw each other. Took a bit of effort, but you really seem to be filling out now.”

Week six of his pregnancy brought in the wonderful bouts of morning sickness. Some days were alright, as long as he ate small meals in regular intervals. Which he wasn’t so good at, and for weeks more often than not he’d been in the bathroom worshipping the porcelain god.

The gut wrenching body betrayal lasted, rather unfortunately, until his fourteenth week a month before. Although the doctor assured him, as far as morning sickness went his had been mild. Any betrayal of that kind was unacceptable in his head.

“It stopped four weeks ago,” Sherlock replied as the technician covered his clothes with a cloth tucked into the waist band. 

“Good, and how are you getting on with your weight?” the technician asked picking up the bottle of gel and squirting the cold substance on his stomach.

Although the recommended amount of weight gain at 18 weeks of pregnancy was only 3 ½ kilograms the doctor had given him a good lecture about the importance of eating. His body was malnourished when he’d gotten pregnant, and 3 ½ kg’s weight gain on his part simply wouldn’t have provided enough space for the baby to grow.

So he ate. He ate regular meals and healthy foods even though he didn’t want to, because the baby needed it. And even though it wasn’t born yet he’d sworn to himself that he’d get his child everything it needed. Maybe not everything it wanted, he wouldn’t stand for a spoilt brat, but his child would never go without something it needed. At the very least Mycroft would see to that. His insurance plan should anything go wrong.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, looking at the screen. The image on it was amazing. The image of a child, growing strong inside of him. A child that was going to be all his in only a few short months. He could barely believe it. The sound of the heartbeat, the flicker of it on the screen.

“Did you want to know what you’re having?” the technician questioned pausing to look at him before continuing at Sherlock’s nod.

“Congratulations Sherlock,” the technician stated pausing the wand, “You’re having a healthy baby girl.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but go over the information he’d read again. So the old wives tales and urban legends had let him down. He wasn’t having a boy, but really he was okay with that. A girl was perfectly acceptable.

Having decided that he was happy with that Sherlock nodded to the technician, “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome Sherlock,” the technician replied helping to clean off the residual gel, “It’s just a shame that this is the last time we’ll see each other. You’ve nearly completed your program after all. So congratulations on that, and the best of luck to the two of you.”

\---

And suddenly he was back into the world of boredom. For a few minutes he’d been entertained by the sonogram the doctor had presented him with, trying to see what the specialist saw in it. With a dramatic sigh he gave up the sonogram and threw it into his pocket before heading out into the lawn in the back of the rehab facility.

At first it had been strange being out of London, away from the main city where the level of noise was low and the atmosphere was different. It was probably supposed to be a retreat, a home away from home where they were removed from all their previous influences and the option to obtain drugs were removed.

Really being out there just made him bored, and it was when he was bored that he wished for drugs the most. The sound in his head was insane when he was bored. Everything was amplified, and not just the actual sounds that surrounded him, but the thoughts within his head screaming at each other, jostling for his attention.

With resignation he made his way across the grass and into the scant trees scattered about. Couldn’t have too many, that would promote hiding places where the residents could stash and take drugs in secret. Truth be told, if he wasn’t pregnant he’d be taking every opportunity to relapse. It was so boring here. Without the appropriate motivation he could see why people like Audrey would give up and leave. Other than being offended by his winning personality of course.

Wandering through the yard he found himself in an area which he hadn’t been to before. Having been pre-occupied with at first suffering through withdrawal and then with staying near his room lest he be struck down with a severe bout of morning sickness. Then came cases and being shadowed by the lackey’s that Mycroft paid off.

All in all he hadn’t been that interested in getting out. There had always been better things to do. After all, his body was transport, and at the moment he was carrying an extra passenger. There was no reason to engage in unnecessary risk.

Otherwise he’d have gone to a crime scene or two, even if they were mildly changed, or talked to some of the witnesses to the crime’s he’d been working on. As it was he’d had to settle for emails and phone chats. To say that it had been hard doing things that was were an understatement.

And he was only 18 weeks into this pregnancy. He was going to be severely bored by the time he popped his daughter out. At least it wasn’t just ‘the child’ or ‘the kid’ anymore, but he was fully able to contemplate her as a gender identified human being. Not that he’d be bothered no matter what she was. Alpha, beta, omega. He wasn’t going to do to her what his parents had done to him. Identification was no big deal. No matter what he’d support her.

All he needed was a name. Mycroft was going to suggest some of the old stuffy family names he knew it. In fact he was probably finding out what the gender of his baby was right now. Any time soon he’d be sure to get a message from Mycroft, or his assistant since he’d recently obtained a new one. 

Almost on cue his phone lit up with a message. Opening it he glanced the words over;

[Text]  
From; Fat Idiot: 12.45pm  
Sherlock, congratulations on having a girl. I am sure Mummy would love it if you used a family name. Here are a few suggestions for you to consider; Violet, Gladys, Petunia, Adelice, Cecelia, Shirley, Victoria.  
MH

Sherlock scowled at the phone. As if. Some of those names were the names of hated relatives, as Mycroft very well knew. And some of them were just plain out and out jokes; Shirley. Just because he’d been named for great grandmother Shirley Locke was not a good reason to foist that name on his child.

[Text]  
Sherlock: 12.47pm  
No.  
SH

Putting the device back into his pocket and vowing to ignore it if it did go off he continued his walk. It was kind of nice to be alone for a while, to have space to think without it being monitored by someone who was reporting back to his brother.

“Hello,” Greeted a man in a bee keeping outfit. A sniff told Sherlock the man was non-threatening, a beta. Not that he wasn’t perfectly capable of defending himself, but being his first pregnancy it made him a little wary of strangers.

“Hi,” Sherlock replied.

“What are you doing all the way down here? Not many of you lot from up there come this far unless you’re trying to sneak drugs or clandestine meetings under the doctor’s noses.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Idiots. What is the point in being here if you’re just going to force yourself to fail. And there are camera’s out here on some of the tree branches. If they were trying to evade detection they would have done a rather poor job of it.”

The man laughed taking off his headgear, “You’re smarter than most of them others I reckon. Not coming down here to take drugs or meet a handsome alpha then.”

“I think I’ve had rather enough alpha’s to last a little while,” Sherlock replied rubbing at his belly pointedly, “I came down here because I was bored, and the other idiots were being dull.”

“Bored huh? Wanna learn something new?” The man asked with a grin.

If it was something sexual Sherlock swore to himself he was going to rip them man’s dick off. Although that could possibly be the hormones speaking more than anything.

“What?” Sherlock asked in return a doubtful look on his face.

“How much do you know about honey bees?” The man said.

“Honey bees are a subset of the genus Apus. Currently, there are only seven recognised species of honey bee with a total of 44 subspecies. I took biology in school,” Sherlock replied steadily, wondering if the other man questioned it because he was an Omega or because he was really interested in the answer.

“How would you like to meet some up close and personal then?” The man asked with a challenging smile. 

Clearly it was something he thought most the rich addicts back up at the facility wouldn’t even think of doing. Challenge accepted. He would quite happily extend his knowledge in an area that was lacking. It was just a shame that others weren’t so intelligent toward the matter.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, “I would like that.”

At least he wouldn’t be bored and aimlessly wandering anymore. The beekeeper gave him some gear of his own to struggle into. There were multiple sets of protective gear, as if they were meant to be used by a large team of people. But they were all brand new and unused. Placing the mesh hat on his head and wriggling into the suit he turned to look at the beekeeper.

“Why are there so many suits?” Sherlock asked although he already had his suspicions on the matter.

“The rich lot up in the facility were meant to use them, but one of the first group screamed her head off when we tried to get them to do it, and the rest didn’t want to,” the beekeeper replied, “Meant to be a group activity, but those lot aren’t big on that sort of shit- er thing.”

“I may be a pregnant omega, however I’m not so fragile as to be offended by a little bit of language, and my child cannot hear you at this stage either. She’s only approximately 7 ounces at this stage; the idea that she might somehow hear and understand is absurd. There’s no need to censor yourself,” Sherlock drawled in a bored manner.

The beekeeper laughed, “You really are something different aren’t you.”

“I should certainly hope so,” Sherlock replied with disdain. To be anything like the dull and self-absorbed idiots he was staying with at the moment would be the highest form of degeneration to him. Did they make a rehab for that? They certainly should. A good portion of the population might benefit from it.

With a grin and a gesture to follow, the beekeeper led the way to the hives where the bees were kept. Colourful boxes with pictures of bees painted on them, lifted off the bark by stone pedestals. Cute really. He furrowed his brows in thought. Cute was not a thing that he generally noticed. Not a thing he would normally notice at all. Must be those bloody hormones.

Opening the hive the beekeeper applied the smoke from a smoker, and then set about harvesting the hive. The whole time he talked and explained what he was doing, explaining how the smoke worked.

“First, a honey bee's natural instinct when confronted with smoke is to react as if there is a forest fire and the natural home is about to be burned down. Escape is the first defence, and worker bees will duck into the hive and eat as much honey as they can to take with them when they abandon the hive and seek out a new nest,” The beekeeper informed to Sherlock’s rapt attention.

Bees were oddly fascinating creatures. Working together with such a hierarchy and system beyond what you might think they should be capable of. He wasn’t bored anymore. He just wanted to know more. The more the keeper talked, the more he appreciated him. This one wasn’t at all like he’d thought he’d be, any more than Sherlock was what the beekeeper had thought he’d be. 

“If you do that then they are busy when you are working, and they pretty much leave you alone. Second, communication in a beehive is chemical. Pheromones waft around the hive continuously, produced by the queen, other workers, the brood and even drones. These chemical messages tell other bees what to do, when to do it and when to stop. Smoke interferes with these messages, and communication breaks down. When that happens you can go into a hive and do your work,” The beekeeper informed before closing the hive down, mission accomplished.

“Interesting. And how often do you do this? Tend to bees,” Sherlock questioned.

“I check their syrup about four times every two weeks,” The keeper answered.

“I don’t have much time left here. I’ve nearly completed the program, but would it be acceptable for me to join you on these ventures?” Sherlock questioned.

“I don’t see why not. Having an extra pair of hands isn’t something I’d say no to. I’ll send for you when I’m ready for you then Mr…..?” the beekeeper said, trailing off when he realised that he’d never asked for a name.

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. And I’m staying in Room 4. Mr?” Sherlock answered with a grin.

“Ian Malcolm. Call me Ian Mr Holmes. I get the feeling we’re going to know each other quite well the next couple weeks.”

Ian couldn’t have been more right. Sherlock came up with question after question for the man. Once he’d started thinking about bees he couldn’t stop. They were fascinating, or at least fascinating enough to alleviate the boredom of a place where nothing happened.

Although the facility planned a dinner and small celebration in the name of his completion of the program he spent his day with Ian instead, drinking fruit juice sweetened with the honey of their bees and chatting. It was probably the most sociable and accepted he’d been in quite a while. When the beta laid a gentle kiss against his lips he responded in kind before pulling back.

They both knew that he was leaving, and that there was no future for them. But that didn’t stop them from taking one last moment in this. Ian was his teacher, and something about the manner in which he’d treated him; guiding him and praising him made him feel warm inside. So they threw together in one last hurrah.

“One night,” Ian stated, leaning back in to kiss Sherlock again. He didn’t even care that Sherlock was already pregnant. They both wanted it, and if this was to be their only chance then he would take it.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, willing to sleep with Ian pregnancy hormones filling his system.

Falling into the bed in Ian’s cottage they began to touch each other wildly. The passion of a wild one night fling filling them to bursting. And when they were done, they kissed before parting ways, knowing that they could and would be content with only that. Their relationship was the culmination of a wild mental attraction and nothing more. There would no love lost between them.

When Mycroft sent the car for him the next morning he was able to get inside, clean of drugs and free of regrets. His time at rehab was over. It was time to leave that person behind and become someone new. His time, the time of Sherlock Holmes consulting detective, was now.


End file.
